The Mentor

by Pat Connid

  I put Pavan’s knapsack in the guest room, which was a sort of loft tucked into a third floor that was half the size of the other floors. From the window, there was a beautiful view of city skyline: various styles of buildings with spires climbing higher to the sky than the previously built structure, as if some bizarre, multi-million dollar phallic brandishing contest had taken place above the city of Atlanta.

  The Dvoraks were cultured, it seemed, which means they didn’t have beer. They had a liquor cabinet and said I was free to imbibe after the pets had gotten settled (although “not carelessly,” which to me, seemed at cross-purpose), but both brown and clear liquor makes Evil Dex come out. Not for me.

  I walked the four blocks back to the gas station to pick up some beer. And by the time I arrived back at Casa de Dvorak with my six-pack, I was already three short. And breathing a little heavy.

  “I really gotta get into shape,” I said to Ruggles or Muggles and locked the door behind me. Both grabbed a leg and wound in and out like serpents, wooing me into some sort of hypnotic compliance for some task they weren’t prepared to reveal to me just yet.

  Settling into a room just off the foyer, the “parlor” according to the lady of the house, I drank in the quiet, the darkness and a fourth beer.

  It was a relief to think that upon waking there wouldn’t be someone sitting on my dresser in the middle of the night. Even so, I couldn’t just leave the matter behind.

  My plan was that in the next day or two, I’d check out the charity that had foot the bill for the rent-a-jet flight down to Honolulu: Solomon-Bluth. There would be a regional office for a company that big and a visit was in my near future.

  After my fifth beer, the home theater seemed like a good place to fall asleep for the night. Delightfully, the very large television offered up an old episode of Wonder Woman, which I love, because of a long running fantasy about Linda Carter tying me up with that golden lasso, and the truth she learned was basically all the things I wanted to do aboard the invisible jet because, and how, that high up in the jet stream, our lovemaking would not be restrained by petty and shortsighted state indecency laws.

  Which made me think of Laura. Not because she has a lasso or bullet reflecting bracelets but because I hadn’t talked with her since the night she clubbed me on the noggin.

  I’d lied to her, for sure. If forced to explain it, I would likely play it off as keeping her in the dark for her own safety. To be honest, she and I weren’t very good for each other. She’d made it clear on a number of occasions that she continued to see other guys and that should have probably bothered me far more than it did.

  Laura saw me as a lazy, drunken (and now out of work) movie theater usher. She’d had very low expectations of me, and met each with abandon.

  But, I was leaving that person behind. And that was the person who had liked Laura and Laura, in some small way, had liked.

  The kitties had taken to me like ants to an apple core and where I walked, they were always there swirling around my feet. Well, “taken to me” is probably a polite way of saying the odor wafting from my three day-old socks was probably like feline single malt whiskey.

  After twenty minutes, my T.V. Amazon super lady was replaced by a man armed with a juicer, a studio audience and an obvious cocaine addiction, I began to drift toward sleep. Yet, my eyes would pop open every few moments, scanning the room. I was certain there wouldn’t be a midnight gargoyle to awaken me but, still, my mind was on Defcon 4 in fear of imminent attack.

  One of the cats jumped up onto the couch where I was sleeping, did a little soft shoe number searching out the spongiest material available, and then fell asleep in a matter of seconds on my stomach.

  Watching the kitty cast a sail for sleepy town so fast, I took this as a cue—albeit completely without merit—that all was safe.

  When the next morning came, the idea of leaving the house to do anything faded completely. I’d been on edge for a couple weeks now—and put through a physical exertion I’d never imagined was possible for me. The next twenty-four, then, were merely sleeping, feeding animals and watching television.

  On the second morning at the house, I’d been awoken by the phone and given Cindy Dvorak, the missus of the manor, the rundown on her pets and plants.

  Ah. The plants.

  Missed that the first time.

  Immediately, after hanging up, I went around the house with the largest cooking pot available filled to the rim with water. The last time plants anywhere had been doused so thoroughly, an old guy stealing glances at the sky had been running around collecting pairs of animals, two by two, for his big, wooden boat.

  The old woman from across the street, who asked me to call her “Miss Wanda,” had come over twice already, each time in the early afternoon after walking her dog Bear, a pug that had been stricken with, she explained, terrible allergies and, only moments following this revelation, I witnessed the dog’s sneezing fit, which looked like the final, terrifying moments of some brutal, third-world exorcism.

  She only stepped into the foyer during these visits because Bear “didn’t like going in and out of the air-conditioning,” which was fine with me because I hadn’t found the lesser towels yet and didn’t need dog boogers to clean up after.

  As for the “dog of the house”, Toby split its lurking time between the garage and the backyard. I only heard it bark one time and that was to tell me the water dish was empty. Filling a pitcher, I went to the far end of a three car garage with no cars and replenished its water dish (which was so large, if turned toward the southern sky, I was convinced you could pick up Korean pay satellite television with it). Remembering one of the few instructions imparted to me about the huge animal, I didn’t look into the big, brownish beast’s eyes or possibly face the same fate my childhood cat Abigail was leery of from the amorous Mr. Timshun.

  Twice, I’d called Pavan and both times he’d begged to come out, but if the Mentor was out looking for me, he might be watching my friend. Whereas that didn’t make me feel great, at least the crazy fuck wouldn’t do anything to Pavan because, now the tracker was out of my butt cheek, that could jeopardize one of the few chances to find to me.

  Pavan’s CD player had been lost during my last abduction, and I actually missed the constant murmuring in my ear. Once it seemed like a good time to head into the daylight, purchasing another would get me through the remainder of the library discs.

  One of the library’s audio offerings had been the Art of War. The author wrote, “the clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed on him.” That had been my problem with the Mentor—he was imposing his will upon me, controlling my moves. Guinea had been the first time I changed the rules and took a path of my choosing. Now it was just a matter of picking up that pace.

  On the third day, after feeding the cats, I’d plopped down onto the couch, when something caught my attention, and my pulse began to thump in my neck. Did I get a sudden waft of paranoia or had there been something that broke me from my concentration?

  The house was mostly dark and at that point I considered going around and turning every light on. The one thing that came to mind is that if The Mentor had come to this home, Toby the dog-bear would be going nuts.

  Unless he couldn’t…

  At the door, I went up on tiptoes to look through the peephole. Dark. Flipping the light on, there wasn’t much more to see: just a fish-eye shaped dark wrapped in a dirty halo of light.

  Pushing the door open slowly, I passed quickly under the light then walked around the side of the house, toward the garage, and the moment I rounded the corner nearly jumped out of my skin. Behind the eight-foot fence, Toby barked, and then settled into a constant growl. The reflective glow of one of his eyes was glimmering from a crack halfway up the door.

  “Nice doggy. It’s your water boy, remember me?” Then his growling pitched up a little and the fence shook. Oh yeah. I broke eye contact and backed away slowly, easing
toward the front door.

  Dashing past the spotlight above the door, I jumped into the dark of the parlor room and listened to the house for a moment. Nothing. Stepping out slowly, there was a queer sensation around my feet.

  “Oh, damn. Hey Muggles. Hey Ruggles,” I whispered as they playfully slithered around my ankles, then traded sides and kept swirling. Glancing at all the dark corners of the room, still jumpy, I sprinted to the kitchen and filled their food bowl to the top, and put down an additional bowl of water.

  Toby barked.

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Sure, it was a terrifying sound on its own. But, I wasn’t entirely sure why it had done that. Did the dog’s water dish need refilling, too, already?

  I twisted the spigot at the kitchen sink and put an empty milk container under the tap, then left my kitten-slippers to their food and sprinted through the house to the garage. Slowly, I opened the door, slinked my hand out, and clicked on the light.

  In the corner, I could just barely see an outline of a… thing. A presence. But, this creature only wanted water… or if the eye contact thing had riled him up, maybe a little more. My hope was it was just about water.

  At the far end of the garage, I filled the big silver bowl up, which took forever because of the little spout on the gallon milk jug. As the final few drops gurgled into the dish, I flinched as something cold hit the back of my hand.

  The giant head of Toby the dog was just below my fingers after it had apparently poked me with a wet nose. Tentatively, I stroked his big, oil black head and after a couple seconds, it broke away and drank the water. Huge and terrifying, it seemed the creature could also dole out small doses of affection on occasion.

  But I knew to be careful.

  I came back in from the garage, left the door as a crack so I could hear the giant beastie if it needed anything.

  Back inside, I flipped the lights on but the very act confused me. How long had I been in the garage? Since before it had turned dark?

  Breathing out the entire contents of my lungs, another deep breath in, a strange calm was coming over me, in waves.

  The moment my butt hit the couch, I was attacked.

  Rummels (unable to tell them apart, in my head I began to just combine their names) jumped up next to the sleeping Rummels, pressed its back against its twin and began to press its feet into my belly, making biscuits. Then, it jammed its head into the gap on the other side of my body.

  A couple millennia ago, cats had protected the Egyptian royal family. Guard cats. Maybe they’d devolved from there into the aloof, furry meatballs rolling around homes of today, but who would want a cat as a guard dog anyhow?

  A moment later, Rummels' head popped up. So did Rummels'.

  An electric current whipped through me, from forehead to sphincter. Something had spooked the cats. I cocked my head a little, gave the dark corner a look and saw someone standing there.

  No, no. Tired, eyes filling in scary gaps where there were none.

  Then the non-someone shifted, a quick staccato move, as if he/she/it was trying to decide which way to bolt.

  "Who--"

  "Dexter." A woman's voice. But not kind. Deep and almost seething. I wondered, briefly, if it was someone I had dated previously.

  Then, I saw her more clearly.

  "You're that blondy from the truck stop."

  "Turn around."

  "And from the Marietta Square."

  "Turn AROUND," she said. At her hip, there was a gun trained on me. I turned around.

  I asked, "What are you--"

  "Shit," she said. I heard a bang against the wall near her. She'd hit it with a fist.

  "You hadn't expected me home, right? I was out--"

  "Shut UP."

  I looked at Rummels and Rummels, and frowned. My next move already decided and in motion, to the kitty closest I whispered, "sorry."

  Ducking low, I grabbed both fat, furry cats, one in each hand, and threw them at the woman. NarraeaaaaaaaaRRRRnnnnn! Then I heard her scream.

  "JESUS! GET OFFFF MEE!"

  From the floor in front of the couch, I wheeled around the end of the sofa as she pushed off one Rummels as another gnawed at her leg. She lifted her other leg, as I came up behind her, about to kick the second cat off.

  "Oh, no you don't," I said, and bent low taking out the leg the cat was chewing on. As the woman fell, Rummels made a break for it and the woman fell on top of me.

  She stood just faster than I did and I heard the low clanking of the metal weapon in her hand as she tried to get a good grip.

  I reached over to try and grab it and got rewarded with a starburst of incredible light, as an elbow landed hard just above the bridge of my nose.

  My hands instinctively went up and another elbow jabbed into my left lung, the back of her fist catching me in the mouth. Falling to the left, the wall broke my descent. Listing to the side, I could just barely get enough hold with one foot to raise the other.

  My shoe planted in the middle of her back, I launched the woman into the door leading into the garage, and she slipped into the darkness.

  I’d hoped for a satisfying thwop! when her head hit the door. Not because I like to toss around women but she beat the shit out of me and I wanted to get one good lick in.

  Instead, it was as if she hit the door running-- which she probably did-- and I simply helped her through it.

  My heart sank a little-- another breadcrumb to find out what was happening to me, but this one blew away in the wind.

  “GrrRRRRRRrrrrnnnnrrr!

  Then, the playing field changed a little.

  I stumbled upright and the two kitties were on me in an instant, swirling away at my feet. Scooting them away, it almost seemed like they were worried about me. Or, more likely, I’d dropped bacon and it had lodged somewhere in the laces of my cheap tennis shoes.

  I cracked the door open slightly and heard a shuffling. Then the dog-bear-moose Toby barked again.

  The woman yelled, growled back. I could tell she was freaked out and couldn’t blame her.

  Flicking the light on, I saw my blond ass-kicker in the corner of the room. She’d taken a tumble on a collection of hoses I’d made a poor attempt at coiling neatly in the center of the garage. To get up, she’d need to lean up on her hands-- if she did that, however, Toby would be within reach to eat her head whole.

  The look on the dog’s face, the froth and drool that swirled and foamed at his jowls, dropping to the floor in clumps, she and I both knew he was hungry for some head.

  “Get this fucking... thing... away from me!”

  Toby tugged at its chain slightly and a growl began gurgled low in its throat. She pressed herself lower to the ground.

  I sat on the concrete step at the threshold of the garage.

  My lung was still reinflating itself, but my vision had traded twinkly stars for the early onset of a headache. Charity, kindness, saving intruders from man/woman-eating dog-beasts?-- these were not thoughts at the top of my list.

  I asked, “Why are you following me?”

  She laughed and the dust on the ground cleared away from the sharp breath.

  “Oh, hell no,” she said. “You’re not quizzing me because Cujo wants a bite out of my ass. I’ll shoot the fucking dog.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “The fuck I wo--”

  “You’d shoot me, I bet. But not the dog,” I said. “If you were going to do that, you’d have squeezed one off before I even got in here.”

  She smiled and pointed the weapon in my direction. Her smile faded as Toby leapt, and the metal coils that held him in place rattled so hard, the sound of it hurt my teeth.

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “The dog is chained up!”

  “Look at that thing,” I said. “The chain is merely an optimistic request by the members of this household.” Her hand wavered. “If you listen closely and hear a Foo Fighters song coming from that thing it's because it ate my iPod on the first day. Wit
h headphones. And shock proof case.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I shrugged.

  For a moment it was quiet. Her eyes stabbed left to right, then back. She said: “You’re lying.”

  Standing up I said, “Oh, good. Don't hear it? Ugh, finally! I’ll check the yard for it then.”

  “DON’T go anywhere. You’re going to grab this fuc--”

  I raised my arms at my sides as if I were about to use them to take flight. “No, you're the one on the ground. I'm making the rules right now." She raised the gun again. I watched her eyes and realized something else: "You won't shoot me either. This isn't about killing me."

  She rolled her eyes at me. What? What would I know about this sort of thing, so I’m a little slow on the pickup.

  "What do you want? What does that big asshole, ninja want?"

  She started speaking and then, strangely, she actually laughed. "If you knew how much of an asshole. God, that's funny."

  "What do you fucking people want from me?" Toby took a half step back at my voice, then seemed to notice my anger was directed to the woman on the ground, and inched right back forward. Its front paws almost dug into the concrete.

  She looked around the room and said, "Dexter, I don't want anything from you. I'm on the job, shit-for-brains."

  "What job?" Her eyes went from corner to corner of the garage, and it was making me nervous. I barely had a hold on the situation and she was obviously thinking way ahead of me. "Who are you working for, then?"

  "Hmmf."

  "Do you work for Solomon-Bluth like The Mentor?" Shit.

  "Who?" she said. "What did you call him?"

  "Do you both work for Solomon-Bluth?"

  She shot me a gaze like I was a bacterium on a golf ball, hurtling toward the rough at Pebblebrook, and that bacterium had just asked a spec of dirt, "Wait a moment! You trying to say there's life beyond our white, dimpled planet??"

  One eye squinted, she then said almost to herself, "Oh yeah. Actually, I think one of them does run that place."

  "One of who?"

  Inching back slowly, she put her hands on the floor, her right hand holding the gun as she did. Toby yanked against his chain again, she didn't even seem to notice.